Pointing Upward
by Laura Schiller
Summary: David Copperfield. That gesture of Agnes' may not have meant what David thought it did.


Pointing Upward

By Laura Schiller

Based on: David Copperfield

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate

Small and pale as a china doll, half disappearing among the thick white pillows and blankets, Dora blinked up at her visitor with heavy-lidded blue eyes as if even focusing them were too much effort. Strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead; she did not wipe them away.

"Dear Agnes," she murmured. "I am so glad you have come."

Agnes sat down cautiously on a stool next to the bed, not knowing what to say. _How are you?_ seemed hopelessly trivial; _Why have you asked for me? _seemed rude. Agnes was no stranger to illness, having nursed her father through some of the worst aftereffects of his drinking, but this was not the same. Trotwood had been told by the physician that Dora had only days to live, at most; that she might die at any moment. What was there to say?

"What do you need?" Agnes finally asked. "If there is anything I can do for you … "

"Yes … yes, there is." Dora reached out a tiny hand, which Agnes took between both of hers. "When I am gone … and don't deny it, we all know I haven't long to live … look after Doady, won't you?"

Thinking of Trotwood as he waited downstairs, raking his hands through his hair, watching the clock with the eyes of a prisoner awaiting execution, Agnes felt a flash of despair. She knew his loving heart, his vulnerability; even with all her best intentions, she might find it impossible to prevent a loss like this from breaking him.

"I will try," she said. "I will look after him as if – as if he were my own brother."

After all, she had been playing that sisterly role for so long, it was almost second nature.

Dora sighed and, with a playful imitation of Miss Betsey which fell pathetically short, shook the finger of her other hand in Agnes' direction.

"Really, my dear … if you _must_ tell fibs, at least try to make them convincing. Even a silly creature like me can see you're almost as madly in love as I am."

Agnes dropped Dora's hand like a hot coal and jumped to her feet, almost knocking over the chair with her long skirts. She whirled to catch it just in time. She felt the room tilt and spin, felt her breath catch. How could Dora know? All the effort Agnes had spent over the years in earning Trotwood's friendship and respect, in building walls of rationality to protect her aching heart, and Dora could see through them at a glance.

"Dora, please … I never meant … I tried to stop it, honestly I did. Can you forgive me?"

"What for?" Dora rustled the blankets with a shrug. "You couldn't help loving Doady. Every woman must."

"True enough." Agnes had to laugh a little, even now, at Dora's innocence.

"I _was _a little cross when I first found out, but only because … because you are so fearfully wise and clever and good. I could not see why Doady would choose to marry me when he could have had you instead. _You _wouldn't let the servants cheat you, I suppose? Or fall asleep when Doady starts lecturing on all those dull dead poets?"

"He chose to marry you because he _loves_ you!" Agnes interrupted. "Because you are lovely and kind-hearted, and you make him laugh at the end of a hard day's work. You make him so happy, Dora, in a way I never could … " She fought back the tears that threatened to choke her, remembering the first time she had seen them together; the radiant, breathtaking joy in Trotwood's eyes as he introduced his betrothed.

"You know he never cared for me as anything but a friend," she finished, with the steady calm that Trotwood had always admired, hardly knowing the effort it cost.

"Because you never let him," Dora replied bluntly. "I understand why. Doady told me about that nasty clerk who wanted to marry you and might have sent your papa to prison. You should have seen how Doady raged over that, as if he would have boiled that clerk in oil to protect you. But now the creature is gone, what's to prevent you from finally telling Doady how you feel?"

What was to prevent her? When Agnes herself didn't entirely understand the tangle of reasons keeping her silent – her father's drinking; her dead mother's portrait watching reproachfully from the wall; Uriah's hot red eyes on her, felt long after he was gone; Trotwood's heartbreaking faith in the purity and selflessness of his "sister's" affection – she doubted that anyone else could.

"Why do you tell me these things, Dora?" she asked instead. "I do not understand …. does it not hurt you to think of your husband with another woman?"

Dora paused for a long time before answering, as two heavy tears crept down from underneath her eyelashes.

"It does hurt me," she admitted, her voice cracking. "Even though I shall not live to see it. If I had my way, I would stay with my Doady until we were both old and gray, for he is the dearest, kindest boy in the world no matter how much we quarrel. But … if we quarrel now, when I am a young and pretty fool, what should we do when I became an old and homely fool? If I must go away to meet Mother and my poor little baby," referring to the miscarriage which was costing Dora her life, "I had better do it while he still thinks of me with love, instead of bitterness and regret. And if he must marry again … as I know he will, for his loving heart needs someone to take care of … I had rather it be you, my dear friend, than anybody else. Will you promise me this? Will you swear?"

With one last burst of strength, Dora reached out for Agnes' hand again and held it tight.

"I swear." Agnes touched the crucifix pendant Trotwood had given her.

"Tell Doady … tell David … "

Dora's eyelids fluttered shut, and did not open. Agnes felt for a pulse on the cold damp hand she was still holding.

A few slow beats … then silence.

Slowly, very slowly, Agnes placed Dora's hand on the blanket and let go.

The room was so quiet, she did not even notice she was holding her own breath until it caught painfully in her throat. She left the room with hurried steps, unable to bear even one more moment with the shell that had been Dora Copperfield. It was terrible to be confronted with death like this, in its bare, stark reality; to be touching a sweet, wise, generous young woman one moment, and a corpse the next. Agnes scrubbed fiercely at her hand, but could not wipe away that chilly grip. Worst of all, however, was a whisper at the back of her mind which reminded her horribly of Uriah and Mrs. Heep.

_I always knew she was not worthy of him, and now she has admitted it herself. Thanks to her death, David Trotwood Copperfield is a free man._

She hated herself for even thinking it, and silenced that voice as harshly as Mr. Micawber had silenced the Heeps. Of all the dark, bitter, hateful thoughts she had kept under lock and key since childhood, this had to be the worst. If Trotwood knew, he would never call her his angel again.

In this confusion of grief, anger and shame, Agnes blindly made her way downstairs and into the parlor where Trotwood and his aunt were waiting. Even looking into their face, pale and red-eyed with waiting through the night, was another blow to her. If she spoke even one word, who knew what wild, incoherent, selfish outburst might result? How soon before she gave herself away, before Trotwood's trusting eyes turned away from her in disgust? How was she to tell him his beloved wife was dead, and had died believing herself unworthy? How was she to throw this taint over his beautiful first love?

All she could do, choking with unshed tears and unspoken secrets, was point upward – to the upstairs bedroom where Dora's body lay, or perhaps to heaven, she hardly knew.

_My friend, my brother, do not let the little faults we all knew blind you to the pure, honest love she had for you, and to the beauty of her soul. My love, please remember her._


End file.
